


Continuum

by anorchidisnotaflower



Series: When All Else Fails [2]
Category: Fight Club (1999), Fight Club - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, POV First Person, Post-Canon, kind of? as much as it can be with these two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-06 07:34:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11031576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anorchidisnotaflower/pseuds/anorchidisnotaflower
Summary: "He visits, now. Almost like I’m back in heaven again."Sequel toA Reversal. In which the Narrator continues this thing, and Tyler is as much of a jerk as usual.





	Continuum

**Author's Note:**

> So fun fact about _A Reversal_ \-- it actually had more content beyond what was included in the final draft! I finally decided to publish those pieces that were cut as their own fic, and, well, here we are.

He visits, now. Almost like I’m back in heaven again. But this isn’t bright whites and clean faces. This is grit and blood and fists and occasional locks of lips that escalate further than I’d like to admit. 

These are subdued pallets that stain, that warp and ruin. This is what I wanted.

Sometimes, he’ll show up just to ruffle my hair and walk back out again, whistling the whole time. He always uses the front door, closing it behind him every time. I wonder where he learned such manners after living in a hovel for years, but then I remember, and I stop questioning a relationship with, essentially, myself.

Nothing could suit me better.

These weekly interactions are distracting, of course, from my new, sole 9-5 job (no more night shifts), but I’m sleeping again. I hope. 

I ask him, when he walks through the door and slings his jacket to the floor, if he’s been up to anything. Besides this.

He shrugs. “Got nothing planned at the moment.” He quirks a grin over at me. “I’ll let you know if I do, though.”

I start to protest, and then his hands are wrapping around my head and my neck and I stop trying.

I wonder when he leaves, whenever we end up like this. I always fall asleep. Typical, he tells me at one point as I’m drifting off.

Fuck off, I mumble into my pillow, and he laughs, a sharp sound I’m growing used to again.

Every morning after, I glance at the door and try not to imagine him walking through it again, distracting myself from actually wanting him to visit.

I fail, every time.

\---

The next time he’s there, I don’t fall asleep. I am Jack’s determination.

He looks over at me, surprised. “Someone’s sharp today.”

I swat at him, and he takes the opportunity to ruffle my hair. I grin, despite myself, and then shift over to him. He’s got his jacket back on, and I managed to pull on my undershirt, for once. I curl my fingers into the edge of the jacket, and yank him over to me.

He grudgingly complies, but I can see his mouth twitching up. He wraps his arms around my shoulders, and I let my other hand grasp that jacket, breathing in his scent of soap and smoke and sweat. I wonder if he still makes soap. Probably not, but I like to imagine he keeps it up. 

What would Tyler be without soap?

“Pretty fucking bored,” he says, and I jab his face sharply, earning myself a reciprocal jab to my still-tender ribs.

After a while, I realize that all we’ve been doing is lying together, not doing much fighting or fucking or anything, really. I start to think about it, and when I do, I come across a thought I try desperately to cover up.

He notices. Of course. “What was that?” he asks, frowning.

I am Jack’s school-girl blush. 

I try to tell him it’s nothing, but he frowns again—searching, it seems.

He stares at me, and the smile that creeps across his face is neither playful nor cheerful. “Oh, Psycho Boy, you’ve got it _bad_.”

I start to drag myself away from him, jerking myself over to the edge of the bed, but then I feel his fingers snatch my wrist, resting there for a moment as I pause.

I can feel his grin before I see it. “Good thing I do too.”

I can feel my forehead furling in upon itself, and then he drags me back to him, and I try to recall what this feeling is, later.

I think it’s some sick form of happiness. It isn’t perfect by any means, nor healthy, nor, dare I say it, _sane_.

But for once, after so long since the days of heating toast over open burners and bathrobes and chatting about who we would fight, I feel something like content.

Based on the way his lips find their way to the relaxing folds in my forehead, I’d say he does, too.


End file.
